Our Lady of Sighs
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory
Summary: Updated 11/11/02: Luke and Obiwan leave Tatooine with an extra companion... Padme.
1. Under Both Suns

Hello! Thank you so much for bothering to take a look at my story. I'm so glad you did! This story takes Padme into ANH, and though I know there are a lot out there, I'm hoping that I've added a few new elements to the idea. *cough* And of course, this will have an Ami/Vader slant to it. Please let me know what you think! 

Legal Disclaimer: 

(to the tune of "Row, Row Your Boat") 

I'll write, write, write my fics, 

Quickly as I can, 

I just have to keep in mind that, 

George Lucas is the man. 

Personal Disclaimer: I'm a hopeless romantic, but ah... not a very nice one. ^^;;; 

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Our Lady of Sighs Pro/?

by Meredith Bronwen Mallory

mallorys-girl@cinci.rr.com

http://www.demando.net/

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Luke rose early that morning, before either of Tatooine's suns had a chance to scorch the world with their heated touch. He dressed in the semi-darkness, listening to the sounds of Aunt Beru commanding the kitchen and-- further off-- Uncle Owen shouting a few terse orders to the hired help. On every other day of the week, it was almost impossible to get the young man out of bed; Aunt Beru would start trying to wake him at least an hour before she actually wanted him up. She'd knock, yell occasionally from other areas of the house, then finally come in and tear off the covers. It was a ritual Luke never disturbed-- except in the midweek. Today, he needed to get his chores done and out of the way before Uncle Owen could think to pile on anymore. 

If he wasn't out of the house before breakfast, then Uncle would try and keep him from going to see Her. 

"You're up early," Aunt Beru observed as he entered the kitchen, her face lit by an indulgent smile. His Aunt always said that, perhaps a little peeved that she had to shout, while the mere idea of Her could wake Luke before the suns had risen. Thankfully, Aunt Beru kept her light teasing down to that single statement-- she wouldn't say anything else about Her until next week. Uncle Owen, on the other hand... Luke grimaced, just thinking about it.

"Yes, well," he shrugged his shoulders, gratefully accepting the energy bar she handed him. He leaned against the counter, watching Beru as she moved with ease in her domain. 

"Your Uncle says that the Jawas will be making their rounds early this week," she reminded him, "So, if I were you, I'd be back just a little earlier than usual." She meant, of course, 'back' from taking Her down to Anchorhead. "One of the vaporizers broke down, and it's put Owen in a bit of a bad mood. Try not to cross him today, alright?" Beru's smile was mild, compromising and brief as she looked up from her work. Hers was an older face, not particularly marked by time but, never the less, only livened by the bright of her blue eyes. The young man frowned for a moment-- Aunt Beru was always the most vocal of his two foster parents, but lately it seemed that she said things simply to fill the space. He noted, with some concern, that Beru's hands shook as she cut the sand-radish into neat little squares for boiling. Luke sighed, but gave his word; yes, he'd be back to help Uncle barter with the Jawas. He knew his Aunt understood his restlessness, the current of the universe that called him constantly to Elsewhere, but she wouldn't put up with its interference in everyday life. Maybe she was a little less tolerant of it than usual, though he couldn't imagine why. It was there, though, hovering between them daily. There was something she had in mind to tell him, but she never actually actually came out and said it.

"I'm going to go get started," Luke said, leaning over automatically to kiss her on the cheek, "Do you want me to pick up some replacement parts for the freezer?"

"That would be wonderful, if you could," his Aunt didn't look up, but Luke could tell she was pleased with him for remembering. The kitchen seemed to warm a little, with her small happiness. "Remind me to set aside something for you to barter with, hmm? Now," she moved her hand in the direction of the door, "Scoot, or you'll be out there wrestling with those machines until evening." 

"Yes, Ma'am," Luke mock saluted her, then turned and walked out into the chilly desert morning. He did not feel his Aunt's eyes on him as he left, nor did he know she stood there for a moment staring at the place he had been. 

"Change is the way of things," she whispered, as if to remind herself, or else to banish the image of someone else-- a Jedi-- who had once kissed her on the cheek and spoken kindly to her. He too had been drown back into the chaos of the Universe, and it had ended poorly. "Very poorly." 

With that, Beru shook her head and went back to work.

-----

Owen Lars was not quite so understanding about Luke's relations with Her. He'd opposed the very idea from the beginning, but his head-strong wife (she was only head-strong when he was angry with her, otherwise she was just strong) insisted.

'I'm not a real mother to Luke,' she'd said firmly, placing her hands over her childless belly. Then later, as the argument persisted; 'It's not as if *she's* a bad influence, Owen! Great Maker, it must of taken a lot for her to choose the way she's living now when she could be on Coruscant, pampered and Force only knows what-all.' However, it was her final defense that had 'settled' the matter. 

'We owe it to whatever's left of Anakin.' Owen remembered flinching, in the memory of that name, and all that had happened because of it-- both the name and the man who'd forsaken it. So, he had (foolishly) agreed. His only consolation now was that Beru wasn't as comfortable with the arrangement as she'd once been. The moisture farmer heaved a sigh of incredible annoyance and began taking out his foul mood on the unfortunate vaporator he was trying to fix. As he tugged harshly on the fray wiring, he considered leaving the machine alone and delegating its repair to Luke. It would be an unfair, but effective, way to keep the boy out of trouble and away from Her. Upon further consideration, Owen realized he would only make himself into more of a bad guy, heightening Luke's attraction to things and ideas outside the realm of Tatooine. 

It wasn't so much that he didn't love the boy-- he did, as much as one can love while they continue to push away-- but he was afraid of what Luke was capable of. He'd seen his foster son use the Force without thinking, without the boy even realizing that it was his will behind the incredible luck that sometimes fell his way. In Owen's mind, the safest place for Luke to be was as far away from Coruscant, and Vader, as possible. At least, he reflected, She never encouraged Luke to leave the planet (not that Owen knew of), unlike a certain crazy old Jedi turned hermit. There was something that never failed to rouse what passed for Owen's temper; every so often, Ben would come slinking up to homestead, always with the same song. 

'Luke's been reaching out to touch the Force, hasn't he? He's far past the usual age for training.'

'He should be trained-- the less training he has, the more likely he is to fall.'

'One day Luke will need to tear down the monster his father has made.' That last bit would bring a gasp from Beru and a wild, harsh look in her eyes that clearly said 'Luke must never know'. 

As if he was reading her mind (and probably, probably he WAS reading her mind, damn Jedi) Ben would remark, "He'll have to find out someday, Beru. Even you can't shield him from this." The argument would devolve from there, Owen defending his wife, Beru withdrawing, and the Jedi stubbornly retaining composure. In the end, however, it was Beru (not Owen, as Luke often thought) that sent Ben away. Until the next time, which was always far enough away to give the desert woman time to feel poorly about her behavior. Mother's pride, he'd once overhear her mutter. It was strange to think of it that way. 

"I don't know which is worse," he muttered at present, eyes focusing on the vaporator components as it was all *their* fault, "crazy Jedi or deposed monarchs." He snorted, "I never get a moments peace between them."

Owen continued to repair the vaporator, slipping into a state of simple ease once he discovered what the problem was. He was a man who thought perhaps more than anyone imagined, but he never considered himself as anything aside from a farmer. Still, as the chilly predawn turned to blazing morning, he felt as if the rest of the Universe was beating at the edges of the homestead, trying to disrupt his way of life. He brushed it off as stupid fantasy, finished with the vaporator and stalked towards the kitchen. As expected, Beru had breakfast prepared in her familiar, well worn pattern, but Luke was not present. Owen thought he could hear the boy loading up his speeder out in what was loosely termed 'the backyard'. 

"I suppose Luke's off to take Her to Anchorhead," he grunted as he shoved his hands in the sonic washer. Even after years in the desert, Beru had a very low tolerance for sand in her kitchen. 

"Of course," his wife's voice seemed more weary than usual.

He grunted again, "Better that than off at Toshi Station with those friends of his who want to be Stormtroopers, I suppose."

"The girl, Camie, she seems sensible enough," Beru replied, her expression unreadable, "It's almost a shame."

"A shame?" he asked as he seated himself.

Her expression became suddenly amused, "Oh, I don't know what's gotten into me anymore. I guess I'm getting old."

"If you're getting old, what does that make me?" he asked, half-remembering a pattern of teasing from long ago.

"Oh, gee, I don't know," her smile became genuine, but only for a moment. "It would be nice if Luke would settle down here, though. Have kids, you know."

Owen paused in mid-bite, "Who says he isn't?"

"Oh, Owen, he's not going to stay here forever-- you know that. He has too much of his father in him. And besides," her expression became one of strange, sacrificing love for a child, "it means so much to him."

"Yes, well, that's what I'm worried about." 

Silence descended, but Beru reached across the table to place her hand over his.

------

Luke wasn't unaware of the tension between his foster parents, but he generally chose to ignore it. If he let their slight displeasure dissuade him, he'd never even leave the house. Thus, he listened with only half an ear, and never really noticed when their voices lowered in a conspiratorial hush. He busied himself with loading the things for barter into the back of the speeder and checking his chrono repeatedly. With everything at last in place, he hopped into the vehicle and revved the engine, feeling that particular thrill that only came at high speeds or behind the wheel. He guided the craft expertly through the deep desert canyons, pushing the engine to its limit. There was something strangely comforting in the sensation of barely contained danger.

And besides, he didn't want to keep Padme` waiting.


	2. The Exile

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Our Lady of Sighs 2/?

by Meredith Bronwen Mallory

mallorys-girl@cinci.rr.com

http://www.demando.net/

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"I got those parts for the freezer!" Luke called by way of greeting. Stepping through the back door, he closed his eyes, momentarily appreciating the small difference in temperature. Stepping around the large vat of cured bantha meat, he smiled at his Aunt over the stack of machinery in his arms. Beru smiled and frowned, she was somehow very good at doing many things at the same time. Shaking her head, she pulled aside the kitchen curtain that was as weathered as her hand and peered out towards the speeder. Luke stood where he was, knowing her sharp eyes would catch the dent in the hull.

"Do I even want to know what that's from?" she put her hands on her hips briefly, then moved to take the parts from him.

Luke grinned sheepishly, "Padme and I ran late in Anchor Head. The place was crawling with Imperials for some reason. I was kind of in a hurry to get back."

"I should say!" Aunt Beru lifted a spoonful of what looked like lunch and sniffed approvingly, "Your Uncle is already out there with the Jawas. I told him I sent you out to fetch me something. If you hurry up, he'll be none the wiser."

"Thanks!"

"Just a second, young man." Luke paused in the doorway, watching as his Aunt plucked a small, brown meyeten from the bowl on the counter and tossed it his way. Catching it with, ease, he took a quick bite. She returned his gaze with mock-severity and a wag of her finger, "I know you didn't have a good breakfast. Eat!"

His 'thanks' was muffled as he trotted out into the hot afternoon. 

Uncle Owen broke his lengthy triad with the Jawa trader long enough to mutter a 'there you are', not even looking up to see if it really was Luke. The young man rolled his eyes reflexively-- something he only did when Owen couldn't see it-- and folded his arms, measuring each of the droids with a quick glance. Luke smiled briefly at the sight of the little blue Artoo unit towards the end-- from the blotches of carbon scoring, it looked like that one might have seen some action. Of course, Uncle Owen didn't choose the blue unit, but gestured for an older red model instead, along with a golden upright that looked along the lines of a C2 or C3 model. Nudging the sand with his boot, Luke made a face-- Padme's talk of pods had gotten him thinking about perhaps building one of his own. He knew of an old Y-wing crash the Jawas hadn't raided, and if Owen had bought the R2 unit, then he could have used the astrodroid to rig up the old cockpit and... Distracted, Luke placed his hand on the red droid's cylindrical dome, only to jerk it back in pain. 

"Hey!" he cried, blowing on the offended skin. Coughing, he used his free hand to wave off the smoke from the shorting droid and shouted over the sound of grinding gears. "Uncle Owen, this R unit has a bad motivator!" Luke couldn't hear what the older man said in response, but from the anxious movements of the Jawa, he could imagine the temper Owen was launching into. 

"Excuse me, sir," the golden droid put in, "But that R2 unit over there is in very good condition. We've worked together before."

"Really?" Luke grinned-- maybe his luck was changing after all. "Hey, Uncle Owen, what about this R2 unit?" Though the young man kept his face blank during the asking, Owen still narrowed his colorless eyes in suspicion. For a moment, the moisture farmer frowned, before finally motioning towards the little blue droid. "Yes!" Luke muttered under his breath. He herded the two droids towards the garage, nodding politely to the protocol droid's enthusiastic appraisal of his smaller companion. 

"I guess you two have seen a bit of action, huh?" Luke asked once he'd settled in to clean up the R2 unit. "From all this carbon scoring, I'd say you've been through a war."

"I'm afraid so," the golden droid muttered, sounding almost annoyed. "Sometimes I'm amazed we're in such good condition-- if you catch my meaning, sir."

"I'm Luke," the young man interjected, reaching for a semi-clean rag. "You know if this R2 unit would work with a Y-wing navigation computer?"

"I believe so, Master Luke," came the prim reply, "I am See-Threepio, human cyborg relations, and this is my counterpart, Artoo-Deetoo."

"Nice to meet you," Luke laughed a little, patting Artoo's dome affectionately. "How do you feel about racing?" The little robot's shrill whistles and beeps reminded him of a mechanical bird he'd once seen at the Mos Espa carnival.

"What!?" Threepio asked.

Luke reached for a small micro-weilder, "What did he say?" 

"He says," Threepio began, "that he is the-- well, mind you I don't know *what* he's talking about-- but he says that he is the property of Obiwan Kenobi, and you should release him now so he can find his Master."

"Obiwan?" Luke bit down on his lip, reaching into Artoo's paneling to fuse two wire that had come loose. "Maybe he means old-- where'd that red wire go?--"

"Probably fell between the memory unit," Threepio replied, "It does that, from time to time."

"Thanks," Luke fished the wire out, holding it carefully next to the main connector. "Anyway, maybe Artoo means Old Ben Kenobi. He's something of a hermit, lives up near Beggars Canyon."

"Perhaps it's merely a coincidence, sir," Threepio suggested as the lift removed him from the oil vat. The suns hit off his gold plating, nearly blinding Luke when he looked up, "I really don't remember ever working for--" The sound of metal on metal drowned out whatever else Threepio might have said, and Luke found himself hurriedly opening the compartment he'd just closed. Artoo made several high-pitched beeps of protest, and Luke let go, falling back in surprise when the droid's small holo projector sprung to life. 

She was a miniature in cold blue, somehow filled with life despite the fact she was a reproduction made by machine. The expression on her face was the kind you see on statues, fine and beautiful but guarded. She didn't want to let you see anything behind her eyes, and her lips were set in a firm determined frown. 

"Who is she?" Luke asked, because he somehow felt he knew. Her eyes, her hurried movements, spoke to him in an old language, one without words. 

Tiny fingers touching between wooden bars: what's yours is mine, what's mine is yours. 

A warm place, a crimson ocean where the thunder in the distance was really a heartbeat. He was suspended beside her-- they touched and connected, grew. 

I am you and you are me.

Neither of them needed to breathe. 

"-- a senator of some importance, if I remember correctly." 

Luke shook his head, sitting down abruptly. He could feel his lungs fighting for air, so overwhelming had the vision been. It wasn't an else-thing... it had been the only thing he could see. It was real. 

"She's beautiful," he said breathlessly. Of course she was beautiful, she was part of-- the best part of-- something so special...

"Help me, Obiwan Kenobi," the miniature entreated, curling her hands around each other, "You're my only hope." 

Fear wove in between Luke's ribs, "Is there more to this recording?" The holo-recording went static, then repeated the woman's desperate plea. For a moment, Luke reached out his hand, as if to comfort the stranger (no, I know you, I know you...). He flinched when the image scrambled at his touch.

"Artoo says his restraining bolt is interfering with his memory system," Threepio translated, coming to stand beside Luke, "Perhaps if you remove it, he'll be able to play back the whole thing."

"Yeah, sure." Eagerly, Luke reached for a small lever, feeling as though he was passing through some unknown door. The lever was the weight of the key in his hand. He had always dreamed, lightly, of a reason to leave Tatooine, of some high adventure that would take him past the small scope of his life. A young boy's dreams demanded; give me a reason to fight the world, give me a place to put this rage, put a pretty face to my honor. The princess in distress was a part of that dream, something taken out of fairy tales and myth. And yet, this woman was more than that; she was nothing like the flat, weightless idea of a beautiful woman to rescue. She was-- he couldn't find the word, and it frustrated him. "Alright!" he said happily, peeling the last bit of adhesive off the small droid's hull. He set the restraining bolt aside, turning his gaze to the hologram. Instead, his eyes meant empty air-- the woman's form had fallen in on itself and vanished in a brief flash of blue. "Hey! Bring her back! Play back the whole message!"

"What do you mean 'what message'?" Threepio squawked. "He's talking about the message you just played, the one floating around in your sorry excuse for an operating system!"

Luke rubbed his temples, "Just great. Marvelous."

"Artoo, show him the message!" Threepio ordered, rapping his metal fingers on the astro-droid's silver dome. "Honestly. You can trust him, he's our new master." Finally, the protocol droid thrust his golden arms up in a very human gesture of frustration. "He says it's a private message for Obiwan Kenobi." For a moment, Luke sat on his knees, head cocked as though he could hear something. Slowly, the fear and frustration began to leak away, leaving a mass of fruitless loss shivering in the young man's heart. 

"Look," he said, handing the screw driver to Threepio, "Uncle Owen will kill me if I'm late for lunch again. See what you can do with him until I get back, alright?"

"Of course, sir," the droid seemed to straighten, holding the tool between his stiff fingers, "I'll do my best."

Luke smiled dryly, "Thanks. Be back in a bit."

-----------

The long white kitchen table, white curtains, the air from the desert pouring in through the open door-- well, that was white too. When Aunt Beru was preparing meals, the kitchen seemed full to the brim, bustling with possibility; but when meals were taken at the long stone table, the same room seemed horribly empty. Uncle Owen was already sitting at his place, eating without enthusiasm. 

"Sorry," Luke said, taking his seat.

Aunt Beru smiled as she sat his plate down, "You're not late." She didn't take it back, even when Owen glared at her heavily. 

The sound of limestone spoons on limestone bowls, the hum of the generator out in the courtyard, the cascade of blue bantha milk as Beru poured herself a drink. No one said anything.

The fine lazuli clock-- Beru's prize possession-- chimed once, twice, and then again.

"You fix those droids?" Owen's voice was rough, the words dropped from his mouth so he could fill it with food. 

"Yeah, they're almost ready."

A pause. Beru passed a bowl of dried meyetens to Luke. Her hands were cold and warm when they brushed against his.

"I suppose you went out with Padme today."

Now the silence gained a new texture as Beru's clear sapphire eyes sought Luke's gaze. She seemed younger, almost, in her desire to protect him. Never before had Owen broached the subject of Padme with such obvious carelessness. The kitchen itself seemed to drew inward, awaiting harsh words.

Luke took a bite, feeling Owen's gaze on him. "Yes." Expectancy hung just behind Owen's eyes, so the young man continued: "I took her out to the ruins near Mos Espa so we could test my speeder. She says I'm a great pilot." The last bit said with pride, a slight raise of the chin.

Bitterly, like the red weeds poking out of the sand, "She would."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Luke let his spoon clatter down into the remains of his soup, looking over at his Uncle with eyes that said who he really owed his heart to.

"You shouldn't listen to her," Owen went on, studiously looking away from his wife, "Just putting damn fool ideas into your head."

In a voice hushed with anger; "How could you say something like that about her?"

"I clothe you and I feed you, hell-- and you always jump to her defense!" Owen brought his hand flat onto the table and the dishes leapt high. 

"Owen," Beru's voice was a hiss, a mother lion's warning.

"She always stands up for you," Luke moved his hands, as if to convey how much that meant, "She always says 'your uncle is a good man', or 'your uncle tries'. She gives you the benefit of the doubt. You never extend the same courtesy to her!"

"You're accusing me of being unfair?" Owen rolled his eyes, "Maker. Maybe I am unfair." Suddenly, the familiar face was vicious, mouth wielding words like a weapon. "By all *fair* terms I should have turned you out to die in the desert after your father--"

The truth flashed briefly and darkly in the eyes of Luke's foster parents. 

"After my father *what*?" the young man stood, pushing his chair in harshly. "Why don't you tell me the truth, for once?" He searched their faces, which were bloodless and white with something like fear, finding nothing. "Fine, fine. I'm going to finish up with the droids." He stalked towards the door before turning suddenly, looking on his Aunt with a smile that said there was nothing for him to forgive. "May I please be excused, Aunt Beru?"

Quietly, "Of course you may."

His footsteps retreated out into the garage; Owen ladled out more soup into his bowl, stirring it pointlessly with his spoon. He could feel Beru's quiet anger growing around him like black thorns. He finally looked straight into her eyes, surprised as always at that inner... something... she possessed. What she owned had no name.

"I shouldn't yell at Luke like that," Owen admitted. Beru nodded, silent as the statues of angels near the confessional. "I'm not angry at him."

"He's the only son you'll ever have," Beru whispered.

"I love you, Beru. I didn't marry you to have kids."

They held hands across the table, tentatively, like teenagers.

"I know." She looked down, smoothing her faded dress, "But I wanted a baby."

"He's grown up now, I guess." A pause, "It's Anakin I really want to yell at."

A light laugh like the wind through a canyon, "So would I. We'll never have him back." A heavy sigh, "It's not Padme's fault."

"No, it's not."

Hush, hush; the lazuli clock chimed a quarter to evening.

"Something is going to happen, Owen. I just... What are we going to do?"

They sat silently for a while, drawing comfort from their long time together and listening to the wind cry as it came in from the Dune Sea. 


	3. The Other Half

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Our Lady of Sighs 3/?

by Meredith Bronwen Mallory

mallorys-girl@cinci.rr.com

http://www.demando.net/

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She lay with her arms crossed over her chest, staring at the subtle metallic ceiling above. Leia breathed carefully past her lips, not making a noise, and her heart hammered under her hand. Struggling to keep her eyes open, she focused on the shifting shapes and colors brought on by exhaustion; if she fell asleep, if she closed her eyes at all, she might get up and leave her body behind. As a prisoner, she felt only fear of her own failure, that her secret might be pried from between her ribs no matter how hard she held on. With that, she didn't have room to be afraid of anything else. Her cell was small, and her body sang with pain from the preliminary beating administered by the Stormtroopers. Her lips bled, but precious words had not slipped past them. The bench she rested on embraced her without pity, like a coffin. 

Well, it was about time someone got around to burying her.

  
"Where is my Nana?" asked the faceless little girl.   
She was faceless to them; an incarnation of House Organa   
in ribbons and lace, not an individual.Tripping over her long   
pink dress as she fled the house. She tripped, fell to her knees   
and tore her skirts, her delicate slippers dissolved under the dirt   
and grime of the real world.   
They said, "Your Nana is dead," and they used the   
word as though she was supposed to understand. 

  
She ran through the sunset courtyard, past the shadows   
with nothing to hold them up, begging her mother's name. Nana,   
her true mother, (i am born of and bound to you) who held   
the world in the gentle circle of her arms. She wanted to scream "Mama!", no matter what the consequences, to bestow this truth   
upon her Nana and make her come back.   
"Tell me where my Nana is!" the child, "Where did you put   
her, let me see her again, I want my Nana!" All in one breath.   
"Such a scene," shadowy hands and shadowy fans making   
little corridors for the whispers. "Over a servant, too," they said in   
the same tone her father used when he told her to sit up straight.   
Her puppy fat hands fisted in their silken gowns and dowry lace   
and rhinestone gemstone layered shawls. She grabbed at the   
curls of her caretakers, while the wind whistled into the courtyard   
and lifted the leaves in a dance of frustration. The women's faces   
where bland and their eyes like the broken beads she and Nana   
used to play board games on the bathroom tile.   
"Stop lying to me!" she felt like an animal, the wolf she was   
named for, and she tore at the arms of the women determined to   
mold her a china back and call her a lady.   


  
Crying. Face turned into the velvet pillows on her mother's   
blue-fog bed. She could still smell her mother's burnt flower scent.   
Dreaming, she saw two beautiful youths dancing with masks in   
their hands, saw her mother standing at a window while a man   
set the world on fire. She screamed with silence in her throat,   
awoke and moved through the shear curtains with the light of   
Alderaan's moon.   


  
There was a white pearl coffin the family chapel, ; it   
blushed pink like the morning at the edges like the morning,   
marble roses crawling over it. They had put Nana in the box,   
like the musical jewelry case where the lady sang, you'll never   
know dear, how much I love you... Leia, the little princess   
who was perhaps too fiery and too loving and too real to   
actually deserve her title, crept under the moonlight,   
avoiding the colors on the floor mosaic. 

  
Step on blue, nothing is true;   
Step on green, never be clean,   
Step on yellow, rise high and low;   
Step on black, take it back;   
Step on red... soon be dead.

  
  
Moonglow fell in white squares from the window; she   
passed between them like stepping-stones in the the under-   
water blue of the night. She put her hands on the lid at last,   
mourning in barely remembered baby language.   
"Nana," she said in her own tongue, "Mother, wake up.   
I can smell the flowers and the water. Nana-Mother, come out   
and play." If her Nana was a mist, a insubstantial phantom, she   
wouldn't be afraid. Leia thought her mother would make a   
beautiful ghost. 

  
She pushed up, wedging herself against the floor, arms   
straining to lift the lid. The coffin shivered, making the sigh of   
stone on stone, but try as she might, the covering was too heavy,   
the weight of her sorrow on her shoulders. A cry split her lips as   
she hunched her shoulders desperately to make another attempt. 

  
Nothing still, and a sadness laced and tainted with her child's   
anger rose up and spread its wings, burning everything it touched.   
There came something like lightning and thunder and a tower   
falling down; Leia curled into a ball with her hands pressed to her   
ears, terrified. The monster wasn't in the closet, or under the bed,   
or even under the dark bridge. This time, the monster was inside   
her. The night became silent once more, the smell of rain rushed in   
the windows and promised a storm. Climbing to her feet, Leia held   
her nightgown tightly against her body, slowly turning around.   
The lid was on the ground unharmed; the contents of the coffin   
once more barred to the world. 

  
Rushing with arms open wide, she jumped, trying to reach   
the high sides over the dais on which the coffin sat. She would   
climb in with her mother, and lay in her still arms-- it didn't matter   
if Nana was cold because they would be warm. Father and the ladies   
and everyone else would just have to put them in the ground together. 

  
With a running start this time, Leia jumped, pitching over   
the the side in a tumble of white skirts and brown curls. She   
landed with a cushioned thump that was only the sound of dry   
blossoms being crushed. From inside the narrow box, the world   
seemed so much larger, Leia tried to scream, but the relief pouring   
down her throat canceled it out into silence. 

  
Nana was not in the coffin. 

  
Sometimes (said the old cooks at the Organa summer   
house) maidens walk in the blue violet forest and vanish;   
sometimes the most well behaved daughters, women of   
the sweetest disposition, simply fade away, dissolve into the   
Force, which devours their wisdom, embraces their eternity.   
The coffin was filled to the brim, overflowing with flowers the   
color of Leia's tears; she was drowning, up to her eyes in that   
strange blue color that always made mother sad. They'd see it   
sometimes, Leia remembered, walking on the beach just before   
a storm, laying in the summer grass with the stars overhead.   
'Look,' Nana would say, her large hand smoothed over   
Leia's own like a glove, guiding it to point, 'see that color? See   
the blue in it, how hard it is, and the black that makes it darker--   
oh, there's a bit of the sky in it too. Someone has eyes like that.'   
Leia always tried to guess who it was.   
"Mama?" asked Leia softly, feeling the casket as wide as the   
sea, as though she would drive down through it and find her   
beloved one there. There were some of Nana's things, buried in   
the petal-laden waves; Leia laughed suddenly, brightly, as though   
she and her Nana had been dancing in a careful circle singing and   
then had fallen down-- the sound rose to her mother's praise.   
My Nana, Leia thought, has been taken bodily into heaven. 

  
She couldn't remember how the lid came be replaced, but   
the feel of the moon on her back as she climbed through her   
window was still fresh in Leia's mind. She crept back to the high,   
silver snow canopy bed with flowers in her hair. 

  
Afterwards, at the funeral, they said what a good girl she   
was. So composed. Just like a real princess. 

There came the sound of boots on the unforgving metal floor, and Leia stiffened, her childhood falling away from her. he Stormtroopers dug their spider-fingers into her arms, carrying her so love that her calves and ankles dragged on the floor. In the polished metal of the corridor walls, they looked like indistinct falls of snow, as though someone had shaken the branches of bare trees. There were turns upon turns until Leia stopped keeping track-- at last they lay her on the floor and she rose onto her knees, gasping as though she'd been thrust from the ocean. An officer in black said something to her, but she didn't register it. Instead, her eyes caught on the coil of ebony in his hands, and she understood his purpose in a way words could not convey. The whip uncoiled like a snake, snapped like a serpentbug on a string. That was a memory-- her father, when she was old enough to know she was sometimes someone else in his eyes, and they sat on the edge of a summer lake. 'See?' he said, tying a string about a captured serpentbug, 'It's like a kite.' The little creature spun about wildly, then dove into the lake, suicidal. Even the best people can be cruel.

"Where are the plans?" it was one voice and many voices, the agonized cries of those the terrible station might destroy. Strengthened, Leia arched her back and endured against the cutting edge, feeling her throat pluck like harp strings. She could almost see her voice instructor, the one from the Alderaa University who's lips, when not pursed to produce music, were always closed around the sweet role of an obsidian pipe. 

'Reach! Another octave!' the teacher would say, striking a long, metallic key. Leia reached with her scream, cupped her lips towards that high silver note. The whip came down on her back and blood flew, became a rainbow in the air. 

And then--

A warm place, a crimson ocean where the thunder in the distance was really a heartbeat. She was suspended beside him-- they touched and connected, grew. 

I am you and you are me.

Neither of them needed to breathe. 

The length of Leia's voice extended loud and clear, the kind of beauty that shames crystal into breaking. She understood, vaguely, that she had fainted or was in the process of doing so; in the void, the young faces of her choir-mates clustered about her, framed by school-girl's braids. And past their nonexistent shoulders, Leia glimpsed a young boy towards the back with an earnest face and eyes that were a blue she knew but had never seen. 

======

She woke with the feeling of a child standing the shadow of a monolith and knew instantly that he was looming over her. Breathing deeply, Leia shifted on the bench, still laying on her stomach. For a moment, the image of herself as a beached mermaid danced in her mind and she laughed out loud despite the pain it caused. His breath was the soft hiss of death, and her own pattern immediately settled directly into on opposite his. As a child, her nightmares had been dominated not by her own fear, but by her father's, by the images of the Dark Lord swirling in Prince Organa's mind. Now the borrowed fear only inspired defiance in her veins. After all, she had something the Sith did not.

"Is there something you want, Lord Vader?" Her eyes were open now, staring fixedly at the flickering lights of his respirator. Sugar-laced acid dripped from her lips, she could taste it on her tongue.

"I would know where the plans are, your highness." The last words were heavy with his disproval, and something else entirely.

"You know very well I'll go to my grave before I tell you," she said, her tone almost civil. In spite of the pain, she rolled on her side, cupping her chin with one hand. Her eyes searched the void of his, staring into her own distortion in the ebony lenses. Softening just a little, Leia allowed her expression to neutralize, not out of pity, but out of understanding. A look passed between them; she sensed his own gaze (a hard blue; like the boy at the back of the auditorium in the vision, watching her sing).

Silence, save for his breathing.

_

  
You could start the story "once upon a time", but that   
wouldn't be right. There was a beautiful, wonderful queen,   
and her orphaned daughter, a kind father and a monster;   
but some of them were confused as to who they were, and   
the story didn't have a happy ending. It didn't really end at all. 

_

  
Father forbade her to visit Nana's grave. To other adults,   
in hushed conversations over tinkling glasses of pink-yellow wine,   
she heard him say that it was morbid, that it was only a servant,   
that he wanted for his precious daughter a happy childhood. To   
her, he simply said no. She attended the grave in secret, somehow   
understanding that her childhood was already over. She went   
simply to be near something that was her mother's; though the   
casket was empty, her child's mind that that perhaps it was like   
a Holocom. Whispering against the marble head stone, Leia closed   
her eyes and willed Nana to hear her words. 

  
After school, in her white button-up uniform dress, sitting   
with her lunch box on her knee, and she closed her eyes and waited,   
listening the wind make it's was though between the graves. Rain   
lay over the headstones and grass like a fine veil; Leia was wet through   
her skirt and just a little bit happy. She was seeing her mother, dancing   
in waves of midnight blue and candlelight-- the kind of happiness you   
hold in your hands. Even presently, she had no understanding of what happened next, only that she felt a tugging on the precious memory and   
her mind tensed in a way that came naturally. She opened her eyes and   
saw Vader standing straight as any head stone; and because she knew   
nothing of him, she felt no fear. 

  
He didn't ignore her, and he gave her no outward side of notice   
as he came to kneel before Nana's gave. Somehow, she felt as if his shadow   
was watching her. A single, thick black finger traced the complicated swirls   
and strokes Leia was just learning to make. Alderaanian-- the characters   
for heart and moon and snow. Padme Nabberrie.   
"She's not in there," Leia said softly. He made no human show of   
grief, but it hung heavy about him in the moist after-rain air, and she   
somehow felt a little sorry for him.   
"What?" the word was intense, and Leia faltered, stumbling from   
her perch on the side of the headstone and onto her feet.   
"She's not in there," she repeated, holding her lunch box o her   
chest as though it was her armor. It didn't come out in words, but she   
heard him somehow ask her name.   
"I'm Leia Organa," she said aloud. The curtsies and soft coos of   
her teachers leapt into her mind, but she folded her hands at the small   
of her back and bowed like a boy.   
"Prince Organa," Vader's voice thundered without menace. Leia   
beamed, the title sounded so much better without the 'ess' on the end.   
Her smile didn't last long; the questions he wasn't asking rushed over   
her and stung. The roaring in her ears was deafening.   
"Where is she?" he asked with words.   
"In heaven," Leia answered firmly.   
"The body." A command.   
Her lips were dry and hurt somehow, "Not in the ground."   
Studying her for a moment, he asked, "You're the child of Prince   
Organa and the secretary, correct?" His helmet nodded just slightly   
towards the Organa mausoleum, where a woman named Keiko Strom   
was buried.   
"My mother is dead," Leia answered honestly. The nebulous ideas   
of true mother and woman-with-the-title-mother stayed locked in her   
throat-- the only thing she understood was the fear attached to it. Her   
father's.   
"But she," the word was a prayer as he once again caressed the   
carving of Nana's name, "she lives."   
"No!" the word burst from her throat with a violence that left   
her blushing under Vader's heavy gaze. Princesses, after all, were not   
supposed to be loud. "I saw her dead," she lied. The desire to protect her   
mother burned inside, "She's just not in the ground."   


  
A noise came from Vader, low like grief and sorrow and just a   
little disbelief, but so hard it was a weapon that could cut. It settled   
over the cemetery and Leia, until he placed his heavy claw-hand on her   
shoulder and began to usher her away.   
"Come, little prince," he said, "You have been a great help to   
me. I will take you home." 

  
How wide her father's eyes were when she came up the long   
courtyard with her giant shadow, how pale his face and how strange   
the sound of his mind working! He'd scooped her up in his arms,   
holding so tight she felt her bones bend, and later she came to suspect   
that Vader took her home for just this reason. She did not understand   
their subtle stabbings of one another, but she did understand the pain   
as her father shook her, saying in a loud voice how she should never   
speak to Vader, never tell him anything. Later, her father's voice was   
softer, saying that he was sorry, that he didn't mean to be upset, that   
he loved her and didn't want her hurt and didn't she understand? 

  
That's where the story should end, but that's where it doesn't   
end, because so much was left unsaid. She saw Vader many times   
afterwards, always measuring herself by how much she had to crane   
her neck to look him in the eye. He felt she owed him something, he   
wanted something from her and she held onto it because it was all of   
her mother she really had left. Once, she had a dream of her mother in   
a garden and herself standing at a window, watching as Vader leapt   
over the fence, a fearsome grim reaper, and spirited her away. There   
was something about that in a hymn-- dark upon light, because it hurt   
too much. 

"You're not here for the plans," Leia said with sudden insight. Her eyes changed from the color of a polished drop of blood to the soft brown of a baby doe. Vader remained were he was, and Leia listened to his breathing, trying to decipher his strange language. She felt a light relief in her throat, like water smoothng over her pain, somehow faded; unconsciously, she tipped her head back as though she could drink it before she realized it was merely a sensory gift; Vader's memory of water. Wide eyed, she rolled back on her belly, resting her cheek against the cold metal and hating the feeling of being in debt. 

"What was in the coffin?" he asked finally. The words lay on the floor, begging to be traded. 

"Flowers," Leia closed her eyes at last, falling away from her body, "Ameshien." He stood still, and she could sense him waiting. "Forget me nots," she elaborated, "they're called forget-me-nots."

"Your father is a thief," Vader said with new harshness in his voice. With that, he turned and the door erased his presence. 

Leia smiled blindly, "Ah, but so are you."


	4. Rain, Rain

=======================

Our Lady of Sighs 4/?

by Meredith Bronwen Mallory

mallorys-girl@cinci.rr.com

http://www.demando.net

=======================

Abandoned.

Luke sat, hands between his knees, supporting the weight of the word. The sand was firm and real against him, but the fading light of the suns made the world indistinct and full of possibilities. The shadows were abstract, hidden theta, and Luke felt as if they moved when he wasn't looking. 

'By all *fair* terms I should have turned you out to die in the desert after your father--'

Luke hadn't gone back to the garage; he hadn't touched the droids or fixed the vaporator on the south end or even set foot back inside the small homestead. Rather, he wandered the perimeter of smooth sand around the white clay domes, purposeless, like the child he might have been, had Beru not appealed on his behalf. That must have been what happened, he thought numbly, his mind constructing the cold of a Tatooine night, and the sunburnt face of a child who's sandy world went on and on. In his imagination, he made Beru more beautiful, draped her in a silver dress she didn't own, watched it pool around her as she knelt before the child. He had no memory of that night-- it was make believe, but all childhood is myth and prophecy. He thought he finally understood the dark rock wall in Uncle Owen's eyes, and why Beru was always between the two of them. 

'After your father--'

If you don't want something, throw it away.

Brushing the hair out of his face, Luke studied his hands. Abandoned; wild abandon, running through the desert as fast as you can, no destination in mind; surrender. Bones under the sand. On the horizon, both suns wavered, yellow and glorious crimson, overlapping in a brightness that made Luke look away. He had no memory of coming to the Lars home, he had no memory of wandering the desert-- if it happened-- it was as if he had simply been born at four in his room behind the kitchen, sitting in the small bed with the blue coverlet. There were stories about childless couples, receiving sons and daughters from the mystery of the universe, out of peaches and wells and rivers-- for a moment Luke considered that Beru's very wanting might have conjured him into being. It had as much sense as anything else. 

The shadows began to wither, and Luke climbed to his feet, walking towards the garage with steady, even footsteps. The light came on without his memory of flipping the switch, but he assumed he had done so because it wasn't the first time. 

"Artoo?" the concave walls tossed the sound back a him, "Threepio?" Metal on metal, the brush of sand against a speeder, and Luke bent to pass under the low threshold. "Hello?" Reaching for the narrow restraining remote, Luke's thumb moved over the button, eyes scanning the shadows until he saw Threepio's golden orbs-- a parody of the suns.

"I'm sorry sir," Threepio raised his arms in surrender, "I tried to stop him--" then an almost-shudder, the very human fear of death, "Please don't deactivate me."

"No, I wouldn't do that," without thinking, Luke placed his hand on the golden droid's shoulder. It almost seemed as though Threepio relaxed. "What's going on?"

"I couldn't stop him," there was a whir in Threepio's vocoder, a lot like a sigh, "He kept babbling on about his mission..."

"No," Luke's eyes rolled heavenward, his ears already ringing with phrases expressing his failures, all in Owen's voice. "Just great!" Trotting out under the cool sky and sand, he scanned the horizon, tracing the familiar ruins of rocks. "This little droid is gonna get me in a lot of trouble," he muttered.

"Oh, he excels at that," Threepio bemoaned. "Can't we go after him?"

Luke shook his head, swallowing his child's fear, "Not with the Sand People out. They'll slaughter you as soon as look at you."

"Sand people," the droid repeated, "How dreadful."

"No, Uncle Owen will be dreadful, if he finds out about this," the young man replied. He fished his binoculars from his short robe, aiming them towards where the darkness draped heavy. "I tell you what," he turned, handing the double-cylinder to the droid, "Go back to the garage and recharge for the night-- Uncle Owen wants you guys out in the south pasture by tomorrow afternoon, but he won't bother us until then. In the morning, we'll go looking for Artoo. We should be able to get him back with no one the wiser."

"Just as you say, Master Luke," Threepio moved aside, holding his arms bent. Luke watched him go, biting his lip, before taking the back hallway to his room. The narrow bed with the blue coverlet was a comfort; Luke rolled against the wall and listened to Beru's soft hum, seeping like water through the stone, falling asleep against the tone of her voice as he had since his memory began. 

* * * * * * * * * *

_Luke had only seen a woman cry once before, and it had been nothing like this. Camie, it must have been, or Wedge's little sister-- the one that died in the summer of heat exposure. He remembered the tears running down the face made indistinct by his memory. It was not so much important who was crying as the fact it was being done._

When he was nine, the speeder Aunt Beru had been driving tumbled to the dunes and lolled there while their two bodies were dashed to the sand. Beru's sharp hiss of pain had been the acknowledgement she'd made of the long, deep cut along her leg. Her eyes had been bright, they'd shimmered so blue, but she had not cried. 

"The desert longs for water," he remembered her whispering into his hair as night and chill air fell around them. They waited for someone to come looking for them, Luke sheltered in the circle of her arms as the sound of banthas calling echoed in both their spines. "If I cry, the desert will eat my tears." And then, there had been an else-image, a nightmare that sprang from Beru's mind and became real for Luke. They were surrounded by bodies, fallen at odd and inhumane angles, broken to pieces that could not be fixed. They were Tuskens, the bogeyman enemy that Luke had grown up with, but somehow he felt no triumph, no safety in knowing that so many of the savages had fallen. Instead, there was only Beru's memory of the smell of bodies-- Luke had buried his face in his Aunt's neck and breathed in the faded flowers of her scent. He didn't want to see it, didn't want to watch the setting suns throw shadows for corpses that weren't there. He was afraid, not of death, not of the Tuskens, but of...

The villains of his childhood could be killed. He was afraid of the thing that had slaughtered them. 

Abruptly, he was there again, amidst the bodies half covered by the sand. It was as if they were growing out of the dunes, these corpses. He sensed, rather than saw, a tear fall into the sand and become instantly swallowed there. There came another and another, pounding in a rhythm like the distant remembered beating of his true-mother's heart behind her warm breast. It was rain, twisted and alien-- it was someone crying. 

Raindrops 

(Or were they teardrops? He lifted his hand, caught a few of them and found them salty and bitter against his tongue.)

embraced the garden of bodies, laying over them, soaking into their long frames as if to devour them, as the desert devoured the rain. Soaked to the skin, feeling as if all his life (I was born this way) he'd been swathed in regret and longing, Luke leaned down to touch the shoulder of a corpse. He felt the dead skin through the wet robe, thick and leathery, robbed of life. Without really meaning to, he pushed the body so he could see its face. 

"No," he wasn't even sure he'd said it aloud, but the sky and the storm rang with his denial. He turned over another body, and another, as if they were stones that might tell his future. "No. No. Oh, please, no." Another body rolled over (my God, they seemed to be doing it on their own now), endlessly, in a counter-rhythm to the rain, until every corpse looked up to the rain with an open mouth.

"NO!"

Each and every one of them had Padme's face. 

He turned, closed his eyes, so he would not see Padme's lips lax and overflowing with rainwater. He was a child again, longing for Beru's secure arms, and he felt his mind pull inward and then... PUSH. Away, it seemed to chant in a low, determined voice, go away. His eyes flashed open to see Padme's myriad bodies swept away as if by the hand of some vengeful god. That was when he began to run, because he understood that he'd just seen the power capable of killing Tuskens, of rending bodies as meaningless as grains of sand. 

FEAR. (Where does that power come from?)

And a voicelessness came to him, saying, "It comes from you."

He ran, feeling his heels pounding against the backs of his legs, feeling like he would never ever be able to stop. The desert became a forest which he'd only seen in picture-books, and the tall trees came together to form a corridor. He could hear Her crying now; quiet and ashamed, little sobs of determination and long, shallow breaths of exhaustion. 

She was Someone. 

She was the person he'd loved since before he'd known what love was, or what a person was-- before he'd understood any separation between Her, himself and the other also-loved entity that shared the warm, blood-red ocean. 

Her weeping seemed to draw him through the maze of hallways to a room where half the floor was water and light flickered like dream-patterns against the wall. Unable to see her face, he drew closer, but always her features seemed to slip past him. He knew her, he KNEW her; but like a goddess she was simply too beautiful to truly behold. Hair, dark and wild, fell over her breasts and around the two small children she cradled close. She was bent over them, sheltering with her body, as if she could safely swallow them back into the cradle of her hips. Her back, bent and arched like a bow, was exposed-- he could count the elegant notches of her spine. Another came (he did not bother to identify anymore than that), holding a silver knife.

Slowly, the other carved the lines of wings against Her shoulder blades and back. It was like the paint he'd used on the side of the homestead courtyard as a child-- it refused to dry and ran down towards the ground, obscuring the picture. Only then, the paint had been blue, and this was red. Crimson, her lifeblood, washing like slow, sweet molasses over her ribs, the backs f her legs. It merged with the water, spread like a faint stain all around her, until she and her children were an island of red. He understood, suddenly, that this part of the dream had really happened. 

She said, she cried, "Oh, Ani... Ani..." Overflowing with emotion, until it seemed to be even in the milk her children drank from her breasts. "Ani..."

And later, "I'm sorry, I love you, my children... I'm sorry." She said the words over ad over again, as if she could not bend them to what she really meant, such was her anguish.

Later still, "I was a fool. I should know that love can demolish as well as build." 

The children slept in her arms, and Luke drew towards them, longing for the love She had for her children to be directed at him. She was a mother...

(My mother! MY mother!) 

she was brave and kind and she shouldn't have to hurt. Kneeling beside her, Luke wrapped his arms around her from behind-- his turn to shelter her-- and rested his chin on her shoulder. Through the veil of her hair, he could see her sleeping children, and one of them stretched, opened his eyes, and...

Blue eyes blazed before Luke and he woke to stare once more into azure orbs.

Beru was sitting by his bed, strong hands for once still in her lap. Slowly, Luke turned his head so he could see her better. In the dark, she was so much younger, and her eyes were brighter than the best blue sky. She'd covered him with quilt, one that had been begun by hands with a more elegant style and finished with Beru's industrious practicality; the blanket was tucked up under his chin to shield him from the night cold. 

"Aunt Beru," he said, looking at her through half-closed eyes. The smooth, work-worn tips of her fingers traveled over his face, tracing eyes and nose, a freckle here and a birthmark there. 

"You were having a nightmare," she said, seeming in her own way like a little girl, half-swallowed by her loose nightgown and shawl. "It's alright." He saw that the hallway light was on and spilling through the crack in the door, that the floor was littered with things that had been dashed from the shelves. Raising his eyes to hers in careful question, he grasped her hand. She nodded towards the mess, "I'm afraid I threw the door open a little roughly." The lie was transparent; sometimes things shook as if there was an earthquake, but in the Lars household, it was always ignored. She continued to hold his hand, grip light, as though she might fade away.

He said, "Aunt Beru, is everything alright?"

"Yes," she said, and then again more firmly, "Yes. I just wanted to check on you. When you were little, I sometimes watched over you half the night. I realized I hadn't done that in a while-- watched you sleep, I mean. You've changed so much, Luke. You've grow up."

He couldn't think of anything to say, so he murmured, "Of course", and felt bad when he saw that he had made her feel silly. 

"In so many ways, though," she continued with effort, "You're still a little boy. Luke, the Galaxy is such a different place than you can really know."

"I want to see it," he confessed, "I sometimes dream that I try to leave Tatooine, but there's noting beyond here-- reality just stops."

Beru laughed, suddenly-- she was laughing so she wouldn't cry, "I've never been off the planet, Luke. Never once. I was born about forty parsecs from here, and furthest I've been is to Mos Miena. No further than that."

"Never?" he asked, filled with the understanding that for her the sky was sometimes not an endless expanse, but a dome under which she was trapped. 

"Nope," she used the slang trying to lighten the mood. "But you know," she ran her thumb over his knuckles, "I've always wanted to see something. I've always wanted... well, it's silly."

He had made her feel old and clingy earlier, and realized how awful that was, so he confessed, "I want to see a field, like in the stories. Green going on forever, maybe with a river and a few trees. I want to see grass and red fruit."

Her smile was so strange, perhaps one of the greatest gifts she'd ever given him, "I want to see the ocean. I want to swim, feel the water. A... friend once told me about a waterfall that runs through a city and into the sea. I want to see that. I want to splash water, waste it, bathe in it."

"Someday," he tasted the word, wondering why he felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, pretending it wasn't there. "Someday, we'll go there, together. And we'll go to Coruscant, too, and see those fountains they show in the holo-books. You can go shopping, too," he added with a smile.

"Buy things we'll never need," she murmured, amused, "Baubles. Vids. Candy."

"We'll buy you a dress, too," he caught from her an image of rich satins and silks, "You'll outshine every princess."

Beru covered her mouth with her free hand and breathed with a shudder. They gripped each others hands because both of them knew it would never happen, and were terrified because they didn't know why. "I'd like that. Let's do that someday."

Softly, "We will."

She laughed again, and it was brittle, "It's so late. I'm sorry I woke you..."

"The nightmare woke me," he reminded her.

She nodded, "Of course." He sat up in bed as she paused in the threshold. Holding the quilt over his lap, he stared at the difference in the style of it's two makers, and wondered who Beru's companion had been. The chrono read two hours before Owen would rise. 

"Actually," he said, folding the quilt gently and placing it on his bed, "I should get up. I have some things I need to do before Uncle puts me to work."

"Alright," Beru bit her lip, "Yes, I suppose it's a good idea." 

She passed like a ghost through the doorway, and left him to dress.

Luke fetched Threepio from the workshop and sent him out to wait with the speeder. He found himself suddenly turning back towards the homestead, though there was nothing else he needed to get before leaving to look for Artoo. He walked through the courtyard, listening to the machines hum like sleepy animals, then through the cool hallways, knowing the suns would soon rise and banish all else in a blaze of heat. Beru was in the kitchen, lifting pots and dishes with steady hands. She turned towards him as he entered, looking for a moment like a little girl caught. Her face wavered in his mind, became so much younger and childishly pretty. Abruptly, it was gone, and only her bright eyes suggested the Beru of her youth.

"I thought," she lifted a small package, wrapped in dura-cloth, "I thought you should eat breakfast, before you go. I cooked the guro-beans-- it's a little early in the season, but they'll still taste good." She was barefoot, with her modest white nightdress shifting around her.

"Thank you," he took the package from her, set it on the counter and took both her hands in one of his. Once, she had been a large, soft mother-bear woman-- he had been able to sit in her lap, ride on her shoulders. Now, she was small, but still very, very strong. For a moment, they stood apart just like that, until he moved to embrace her. He held onto her, amazed by the solidity of her bones. 

"Luke," she said, and then, "I love you. My baby. You are still my baby. You'll always be my baby." She was panicking and he didn't know why, but he was doing it too. He was just going out for an early ride. He'd be right back. They'd sit down and have lunch with Owen-- she'd scold him for something minor and everything would be back to the way it had been. 

"I love you, Aunt Beru," he said, and held on tight. Then, gently, he released her and took up the package of guro-beans, a little embarrassed. At the door, he turned and said, "Goodbye." It sounded so final-- he added, "See you in a bit," but it didn't seem to help.

"Bye," she said, "You did remember a jacket for until the suns rise, right?"

"Don't worry, I did." He threw the words over his shoulder, unable to look back. 

"Alright."

When Luke was gone, Beru went back to his bedroom, seeing that he had already attempted to clean up the mess caused by his Force-nightmare. Sitting down on the bed, she unfolded the quilt and laid it over her lap. Gently, she reached out for a small, stuffed bantha doll that had been knocked off the shelves; she held it close and squeezed her eyes shut.

She felt more childless than she ever had before. 

"He's not coming back," she whispered, confiding in the quiet room. Later, Owen came looking for her, worried, and she reassured him with a dry kiss on the cheek, a token of their long-marriage. He told her she was beautiful, something he hadn't said in so long that it startled her into dropping a bowl. Fervently, she wished he hadn't said anything, hadn't disturbed the feeling of a usual morning that had been fading since Luke left. Determined, she set about cleaning the kitchen, and did not pause in her work until she saw the rows of white Stormtroopers marching up over the dunes. 


End file.
